Poem
Orietta Lozano
THE GUST OF WIND AND THE MIRROR
I am it, the world,the one of eclipses and brilliance,
the immense one, the small one.
The time has come
in which the carriage is guided,
in which the wall is demolished,
and on the water
where the ship sails,
the shipwrecked and the fish,
and on the Apocalypse
meandering
with its sharp teeth
of purple and clay,
the vision appears
like an immutable lull,
neither vanquisher nor vanquished,
a violet amalgam
of voices and gestures,
confusion of tongues and horizons,
tremor of the wood of flight,
the myrtle opens up
and anxiety floats,
the iron deep in the earth
becomes air in the transparent wings
of a bird that draws
the hallucinating landscape.
The horizon is so calm
when the vision spreads
as far as the golden sunsets,
without the trench of war,
without the edge of the axe or the rope.
without the cold of the knife,
and perches on the night,
the dance of the bees and the wolves,
the flesh of the moon
on the silver of the bonfire,
the descent of rain
on the field of jasmine and the birch,
the hallucinating music of the ship
when it sails toward the center
of the promised waters.
I, the world, afflicted and orphan,
set the clock on the penultimate war
and on the net of the words
that for an instant unties
the knot of the livid fabric.
Save the man,
the alchemy of the waters.
The impassive stone,
the mystery of the mirror and the pupil.
The singing that comes before
the coming of the fish and wine.
I am the invited one,
the stone in the crossroads.
The angry one, the one that bewilders,
the always dreamt-of
in the voice that does not redeem,
in the singing that tempts, confuses
and imperturbably executes
the cruel message of the trumpet
and the terrible order.
From one place to the other,
from the tent
in the cold encampment
to the dryness of the mud
mixed with the lament of a hyacinth,
everything moves with the strange hum
of the bees of war.
Soothe me, hush
my mouth that rages
with the annihilating foam
of the deafening noise,
stop the deeds
of my worn out blindness,
the pageant of my hunchback.
Let me sleep
in the depths of my dreams.
Guide me to the bluish steppes of the abyss,
to the observing crystal of the earth’s eyes,
to the inscrutable bowels of the oasis,
of the volcano and the mirage.
© Translation: 2008, Nicolás Suescún
LA RÁFAGA Y EL ESPEJO
LA RÁFAGA Y EL ESPEJO
Yo soy él, él mundo,el de eclipses y fulgores
el inmenso, el pequeño.
Ha llegado la hora
en que se guía el carruaje,
en que se derriba el muro,
y sobre el agua
en que transita el navío,
el náufrago y el pez,
y sobre el Apocalipsis
que serpentea
con sus afilados dientes
de púrpura y arcilla,
la visión aparece
como una calma inmutable,
ni vencedor ni vencido,
amalgama violeta
de voces y de gestos,
confusión de lenguas y horizontes,
temblor del bosque de la huída,
el mirto se abre
y flota la ansiedad,
el hierro en la entraña de la tierra
se hace aire en las alas transparentes
de un pájaro que dibuja
el paisaje alucinante.
El horizonte es tan calmo,
cuando la visión se extiende
hasta los crepúsculos dorados,
sin la trinchera de la guerra,
sin el filo del hacha y sin la soga ,
sin el frío del cuchillo,
y se posa en la noche,
la danza de abejas y de lobos,
la carne de la luna
sobre la plata de la hoguera,
el descenso de la lluvia
en el campo del jazmín y el abedul,
la alucinante música del navío
cuando viaja hacia el centro
de las aguas prometidas.
Yo el mundo, afligido y huérfano,
giro el reloj y lo retengo
en la hora de la penúltima contienda
y en la red de las palabras,
que por un instante desata
el nudo del lívido tejido.
Salve al hombre,
la alquimia de las aguas,
La imperturbable piedra,
el misterio del espejo y la pupila,
El canto que precede
a la venida de los peces y los vinos.
Yo soy la invitada,
la piedra de la encrucijada.
La airada, la que aturde,
la siempre soñada
en la voz que no redime,
en el canto que tienta, confunde
y ejecuta imperturbable
el cruel mensaje de la trompeta
y la terrible orden.
De un lugar a otro,
desde la tienda
en el frío campamento
hasta la resequedad del barro
mezclado con el lamento de un jacinto
todo se mueve con el zumbido extraño
de las abejas de la guerra.
Aquiétame, enmudece
mi boca que brama
con la espuma aniquilante
del estrépito,
detén la andanza
de mi decrépita ceguera
la procesión de mi espalda jorobada.
Déjame dormir
en lo profundo de los sueños.
Guíame a las azuladas estepas del abismo
al cristal avizor de los ojos de la tierra,
a la entraña inescrutable del oasis,
del volcán y el espejismo.
© 2008, Orietta Lozano
From: La barca de los extraviados
Publisher: First published on PIW,
From: La barca de los extraviados
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Poems
Poems of Orietta Lozano
Close
THE GUST OF WIND AND THE MIRROR
I am it, the world,the one of eclipses and brilliance,
the immense one, the small one.
The time has come
in which the carriage is guided,
in which the wall is demolished,
and on the water
where the ship sails,
the shipwrecked and the fish,
and on the Apocalypse
meandering
with its sharp teeth
of purple and clay,
the vision appears
like an immutable lull,
neither vanquisher nor vanquished,
a violet amalgam
of voices and gestures,
confusion of tongues and horizons,
tremor of the wood of flight,
the myrtle opens up
and anxiety floats,
the iron deep in the earth
becomes air in the transparent wings
of a bird that draws
the hallucinating landscape.
The horizon is so calm
when the vision spreads
as far as the golden sunsets,
without the trench of war,
without the edge of the axe or the rope.
without the cold of the knife,
and perches on the night,
the dance of the bees and the wolves,
the flesh of the moon
on the silver of the bonfire,
the descent of rain
on the field of jasmine and the birch,
the hallucinating music of the ship
when it sails toward the center
of the promised waters.
I, the world, afflicted and orphan,
set the clock on the penultimate war
and on the net of the words
that for an instant unties
the knot of the livid fabric.
Save the man,
the alchemy of the waters.
The impassive stone,
the mystery of the mirror and the pupil.
The singing that comes before
the coming of the fish and wine.
I am the invited one,
the stone in the crossroads.
The angry one, the one that bewilders,
the always dreamt-of
in the voice that does not redeem,
in the singing that tempts, confuses
and imperturbably executes
the cruel message of the trumpet
and the terrible order.
From one place to the other,
from the tent
in the cold encampment
to the dryness of the mud
mixed with the lament of a hyacinth,
everything moves with the strange hum
of the bees of war.
Soothe me, hush
my mouth that rages
with the annihilating foam
of the deafening noise,
stop the deeds
of my worn out blindness,
the pageant of my hunchback.
Let me sleep
in the depths of my dreams.
Guide me to the bluish steppes of the abyss,
to the observing crystal of the earth’s eyes,
to the inscrutable bowels of the oasis,
of the volcano and the mirage.
© 2008, Nicolás Suescún
From: La barca de los extraviados
From: La barca de los extraviados
THE GUST OF WIND AND THE MIRROR
I am it, the world,the one of eclipses and brilliance,
the immense one, the small one.
The time has come
in which the carriage is guided,
in which the wall is demolished,
and on the water
where the ship sails,
the shipwrecked and the fish,
and on the Apocalypse
meandering
with its sharp teeth
of purple and clay,
the vision appears
like an immutable lull,
neither vanquisher nor vanquished,
a violet amalgam
of voices and gestures,
confusion of tongues and horizons,
tremor of the wood of flight,
the myrtle opens up
and anxiety floats,
the iron deep in the earth
becomes air in the transparent wings
of a bird that draws
the hallucinating landscape.
The horizon is so calm
when the vision spreads
as far as the golden sunsets,
without the trench of war,
without the edge of the axe or the rope.
without the cold of the knife,
and perches on the night,
the dance of the bees and the wolves,
the flesh of the moon
on the silver of the bonfire,
the descent of rain
on the field of jasmine and the birch,
the hallucinating music of the ship
when it sails toward the center
of the promised waters.
I, the world, afflicted and orphan,
set the clock on the penultimate war
and on the net of the words
that for an instant unties
the knot of the livid fabric.
Save the man,
the alchemy of the waters.
The impassive stone,
the mystery of the mirror and the pupil.
The singing that comes before
the coming of the fish and wine.
I am the invited one,
the stone in the crossroads.
The angry one, the one that bewilders,
the always dreamt-of
in the voice that does not redeem,
in the singing that tempts, confuses
and imperturbably executes
the cruel message of the trumpet
and the terrible order.
From one place to the other,
from the tent
in the cold encampment
to the dryness of the mud
mixed with the lament of a hyacinth,
everything moves with the strange hum
of the bees of war.
Soothe me, hush
my mouth that rages
with the annihilating foam
of the deafening noise,
stop the deeds
of my worn out blindness,
the pageant of my hunchback.
Let me sleep
in the depths of my dreams.
Guide me to the bluish steppes of the abyss,
to the observing crystal of the earth’s eyes,
to the inscrutable bowels of the oasis,
of the volcano and the mirage.
© 2008, Nicolás Suescún
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